


Dirty

by inkfiction



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Archiving previous works, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-26
Updated: 2010-10-26
Packaged: 2019-02-08 01:27:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12853770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkfiction/pseuds/inkfiction
Summary: A very short one-shot describing a side of Lara Raith that is not really considered.





	Dirty

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in 2010. Written for LJ’s 100 Women Challenge for the prompt “Dirty”. Minor edits.

She sat behind an extremely tidy desk. A white leather binder in front of her contained recent updates printed on thick, snowy white paper. Her office was immaculate: pristine white, cool chrome, a few well positioned splashes of red—it was symmetrical to the point of being severe. She herself was dressed in a spotless white business suit, and even though it was way past the end of the day, there was not a single crease to be witnessed anywhere on it; not a curl was out of place of her blacker than midnight hair, even though it spilled in lazy waves, framing a face that was nothing short of perfect. In fact, everything about her was easy, effortless perfection, from her gorgeously beautiful face and slender, white neck to the long, velvet smooth legs crossed under the table: spotless, unmarred, sensual, beautiful perfection.

The skin of her smooth, pretty, pale fingers contrasted sharply with the black, golden-tipped fountain pen held in them; her hands were a thing of beauty in themselves, soft, long-fingered with tidily clipped nails that did not need a manicure or polish for their soft, crystalline look.

Lara Raith was clean, cool perfection incarnate.

There was a soft knock on her door, and it swung open to reveal her assistant.

“Justine?” Lara looked at her questioningly.

“George’s men have brought Joseph Daignault, Lara,” Justine told her.

Lara nodded. “Have him brought here.”

Justine turned around and beckoned, and a moment later their head of security George marched in, followed by two of his men in grey suits who held between them a little excuse for a man.

Joseph Daignault worked for Silverlight’s finance management division; two days ago, he had embezzled a considerable sum of money from Silverlight’s accounts and escaped, although—as was obvious—not for very long. He was short, bald and pitifully thin. And right now he was a blubbering wreck.

“Ma'am—please, you have to understand—I can explain it—I was going to return it—there was no other way—I needed—please—you have to—”

Lara went to stand right in front of him, the man was literally sobbing, only able to stand because of his captors’ firm hold on his arms.

“I have to what, Mr. Daignault?” she said coolly, towering over him.

“It was my nephew,” he sobbed. “He came from France—to study—he was sick, fell ill—he had no insurance, I couldn’t cover—they asked—money for treatment—please, you’ve got to—I applied for a loan—Moskovit said you rejected my application for loan—he would’ve died, he will die—ma'am—Luc is only nineteen—I had to—please, his heart, it’s his heart—I had to—”

“Moskovit?” Lara looked at Justine.

“He heads Silverlight’s finances,” Justine said. Lara nodded once.

“Mr. Daignault, I cannot let you go without punishment,” Lara told him. “It would be against White Court policy, and that is just not acceptable.”

He looked at her with wide eyes swimming with tears. They streaked down his cheeks. “It’s his heart,” he said in a broken whisper.

Lara put a hand on his shoulder.

“You cannot steal from the White Court, Mr. Daignault, and live to tell the tale.” Her eyes flashed silver for a moment and, lightening quick, her hand gripped the man’s thin neck and twisted it, breaking it.

Joseph Daignault hung like a limp, rag-doll between his captors, his eyes wide and staring and dead.

“Take care of it, please, George,” Lara turned her back to them and walked back to her chair behind the desk. When she sat down, George and his men were gone and only Justine stood by her desk. The whole episode had barely taken fifteen minutes.

“Justine,” Lara said; her voice was very tired and the grey of her eyes was so dark, it almost seemed black. “Please find Luc, and make sure he is properly taken care of—hospital bills, tuition, job. Money should be no objection.”

“Yes, Lara.”

“And pay Moskovit a visit some time tonight.”

“Yes, all right,” Justine said. She paused, and then went on, “You should rest.”

“I’m okay—and thank you,” Lara waved her off.

For a long time after Justine left, Lara stared at her beautiful, clean, spotless hands. They seemed indescribably dirty to her, coated with centuries of blood, cruelty and sin. She felt it would never wash off, that her hands will always be dirty.

Lara Raith sighed and returned to her neat, immaculately crafted reports.

**~fin~**


End file.
